Name Day
NAME DAY The bitter cold wind whipped across the grey autumn sky. A small pile of brown leaves and dust stirred into an eddy and swept up and over the sides of the ruined parapets to the courtyard below. The wind signaled of the coming winter. Soon, fierce driving snow would accompany these howling winds. From his perch atop the old tower, Ragnar Skuldrison could see for miles. He could almost make out Falconhold to the north, and far to the east the Icedagger Falls in the Kressik Peaks. He noted the changes in the landscape, each season bringing its own mark; the passing years, more subtle. His icy grey eyes slowly scanned the horizon, not looking for anything in particular. Fast moving clouds blanketed the sky, and it would be dusk soon. The penetrating wind tugged at his bear skin cloak and tussled his short black hair. Ragnar rarely felt the cold. It did not bother him, and in some ways he enjoyed is ferocity. The darkening sky signaled a coming storm. Mindlessly he tossed a chip of broken mortar into the moat below. It was his tenth name day and he should be below in the Great Hall, greeting the guests who had come for the celebration. He sighed, and walked slowly in a circle about the top of the partially ruined tower. It was more or less safe up here he was told, but no one went here anymore, not since the old days. Castle Beina-Hruga, known as the Bone Heap, had many unused sections. Its population had dwindled since the old days, due to the pestilence. Not even a generation had passed and it appeared as if portions of the castle had been in ruins for centuries. How would it appear in the future without any maintenance? According to Father, it was less a matter of gold and more a lack of skilled laborers to complete the necessary repairs. Several ravens sat patiently nearby, tilting their heads at Ragnar, watching him, waiting expectantly. Ragnar reached into his pocket and pulled forth a tin of salted herrings and tossed a few their way. The ravens swept upon the tiny fish, tearing them to pieces. They knew the drill, this was an old game they played. He spent a lot of time up here, and they had grown accustomed to him, friendly even. One raven in particular had bonded with Ragnar. He had named it Kowron, and it appeared less interested in the fish than his brethren, instead looking out across the bleak countryside with Ragnar. Kowron frequently sat on his shoulder, and even followed him to other parts of the castle and beyond. The raven was the symbol of Mother’s clan. She had her own raven, an arcane familiar, a crafty and clever creature, even more so than other ravens. It was able to speak and converse after a manner, participating in discussions, offering its peculiar point of view. Ragnar knew that Mother’s raven, Bryton, spoke to the Kowron and the other ravens. He wondered what they talked about and how much they retained or understood their intelligent brother. His mind wandered again. Only two seasons ago, the priests had arrived. Barrel chested Hogar, priest of Torag, had come first. Next, willowy and wise Bede, priest of Erastil. Finally, Daishe, a solemn and fierce priest of Iomedae. The three priests had been sent for by Mother and Father, their purpose to instruct Ragnar in the ways of their deities, to forge him into a protector of the weak and innocent, a devout champion of the community and its people, and a beacon of honor and justice. They taught him the language of the celestial beings so that he might study their ancient writings, holy books, and theological treatises. He studied the laws and sacred moral codes decreed since the dawn of time. The priests, along with Father also taught him to fight, with sword and lance, bow, hammer and sickle, dagger and spear and all manner of weapons. This training continued still, and would for many years until one day he would be a knight, and mighty paladin of the gods of all that was good and lawful. He would be a righteous defender and holy warrior, a man of unwavering faith and devotion. It was a destiny he looked forward to and could imagine nothing else. The path had been chosen for him, even before he was born. Ten years ago, a beacon of hope appeared in the sky, the Life Star, signaling an end to the Great Pestilence that plagued the lands for the previous ten years. By coincidence or fate, Ragnar was born on the day the plague ended. It is said no one contracted the plague from that day forward. He had heard the story a thousand times by now. His parents had prayed for an heir. If the deities saw fit to provide them with a son that survived the plague they would dedicate him to the gods of goodness. Tonight it would be retold again at least once. It was almost a ritual at this point. He should go below, return to the keep and join the guests, it was his duty. He stood and the wind beat at him, lifting his cloak. It felt refreshing up here, alone with his thoughts. In the Great Hall there would be other children. It would be filled with the sounds of the feast, of song and dance. There would be gifts too. Most of the gifts would be useless; baubles, toys and trinkets. He had no use for wooden horses and tin footmen, better a new saddle or a sharp blade, or perhaps a new chain hauberk. He had outgrown the previous one. Already as tall as most men, and stronger too, is seemed ridiculous to crawl about on the floor playing at battles with children a fraction of his size. Before long he would be engaged in real battles. Years ago he had already learned to ride and swing a blade like a warrior. He was good with a bow and spear. He had been boar and bear hunting with father and the other jarls and thanes many times. Mounted on swift destriers, they would be accompanied by the huge rimehunds, large bear hunting mastiffs, crashing through the underbrush in search of their quarry. The bearskin cloak he now wore was a result of one such hunt. As he lifted the worn trap door a mastodon trumpeted from its paddock in the courtyard, the sound echoing and reverberating off of the walls. The whinny of a horse responded. Few horses tolerated the surly mastodons, unless they were raised and trained to operate in their presence. In the north the mastodon was common enough. The symbol of his house was the black mastodon, its sooty color the result of generations of selective breeding. He had ridden the great beasts on many occasions learning how to coax them into action. He had heard their power and fury in battle was impressive. He climbed down the rusted rungs to the landing below. Two massive grey white shapes lurched to their feet. Rimehunds, massive dogs, said to have been bred from winter wolves long ago, their malevolent nature bred out, but their size and ferocity retained. Over time, other breeds were incorporated, regular wolves, and dire wolves, as well as battle mastiffs, and hunting breeds. The rimehunds were skilled trackers and vicious, fearless combatants, they had the speed and endurance of a wolf, and strength and power to harry bears and boars. Their pale eyes matched Ragnars in many ways, and their heavy fur, usually white or sometimes grey, hid thick powerful muscles. Ragnar descended the series of narrow stairwells and navigated the winding hallways through the keep, growing closer to the Great Hall. He could hear the music and laughter now. He paused briefly here in the dark hallway, cool and peaceful. After a breath he entered the antechamber, the rimehunds padding at his side, Kowron fidgeting on his shoulder. The herald Brikkon, nodded and opened the doors to the great hall announcing his presence. The Great Hall disgorged a wash of light and warmth from the hearth fires and braziers, sounds of music, conversation, the clatter of drinking horns and trenchers, smells of the feast and spilled ale and mead. All eyes turned to him. He stepped into the hall.